Recurring Event
by Charli800
Summary: Lord Vetinari, patrician of Ankh-Morpork, is not precisely dead, but Sam Vimes has definitely discovered his body. With a history of regicide in the family and a malfunctioning personal disorganiser, Vimes has his hands full.
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in the multiverse, a turtle is hurtling through space. It is also travelling through the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh dimensions, but the inhabitants of the world atop the turtle are mostly aware of the first three. Beyond these, it is the fourth dimension – time – which most fascinates the common man: he knows it, but cannot control it. To control time is the privilege of the uncommon man.

* * *

Sam Vimes stared down at Vetinari's body. He needed a stiff lemonade. The patrician had been murdered: this was a crime scene. What he needed was his notebook. Why could he never find things when he needed them?

"Bingeldy-bingeldy-beep," said the imp in his pocket. "You have an appointment, Insert-Name-Here."

"What?" snapped Vimes.

"Kill leader of city," said the imp.

"Vetinari's already dead," said Vimes dully, "and that's incriminating evidence. Who told you to say that?"

"It's a repeating event in my memory."

Corporal Nobby Nobbs sauntered into the patrician's office. He saw the patrician's body and paused. Something unpleasant _**(1)**_ dangled from the foot he had forgotten to put down.

"Cor, sir, you've killed him. Just like ol' Stoneface and the king."

Vimes sighed. "No, Nobby, Lord Vetinari's not the king – or rather, wasn't the king," he corrected himself, "and, in fact, I did not kill him."

"Are you sure about that? It does look that way, what with you standing over his Lordship's dead body."

Vimes spoke through gritted teeth. "I did not kill him. Only an idiot would kill the patrician."

"There is an historical precedence. How are we to know it isn't in your blood or somethin'?"

"Nobby – "

"There's no call to look at me like that, sir. I haven't nicked anything of yours in nearly a month!"

"Shouldn't you be on duty somewhere, Nobby?"

"No, see, old Fred – Sarge Colon that is – he said – " Nobby broke off and caught Vimes' eye. "What I mean is, I'm on my way out, sir." The little man_**(2)**_ saluted and scuttled out of the room.

"He has a point, you know," said the imp.

"Don't you start now." Vimes glared at the creature.

"Well, it had to get into my memory somehow. A recurring event, mind you."

"I did not kill the patrician," Vimes repeated, "No matter how many recurring events have been set in your memory." He was fairly certain he hadn't murdered Lord Vetinari – after all, historical precedent pointed to it_**(3)**_ – but the trouble would be proving it.

* * *

Certain people live in the nicer houses, drink the finer wines and dress in the more stylish suits. As such a man, Elisabeth's father had naturally found his way to a simple – if costly – home on the Ankh side of the Ankh River.

"Have you put out the candles, Elisabeth?"

"Yes, Father. The total darkness is quite inconvenient, you know."

"It doesn't worry me, my dear, and darkness does seem more appropriate, doesn't it?"

"As you will, Father. The candles are out." Elisabeth moved to draw the blinds and lock the door. "Are you expecting company, Father?"

"I am. He won't need the door_**(4)**_ . Are you sure it's completely dark?"

* * *

"HOW UNUSUAL." Death inspected the hourglass. Each grain of sand had frozen in its place, some halted in midair.

"I believe that's mine," said Havelock Vetinari quietly.

"I AM THE KEEPER OF LIVES."

"Indeed. I, however, am – or, until recently, was – a liver of one."

"YOU ARE NOT DEAD," said Death.

"I have been killed," replied Lord Vetinari, "Which means, I believe, that I am your responsibility."

"NO. IT IS MY RESPONSIBILITY TO END LIVES. YOURS HAS NOT YET RUN OUT." Death gestured to the hourglass. "YOU MIGHT SAY THAT IT'S BEEN SUSPENDED."

"Ah. You are no doubt about to explain why you are here in spite of this."

"YOU ARE CORRECT. IT SEEMS THAT SUSPENDED TIME WILL SUIT A SUSPENDED LIFE BEST. I AM INVITING YOU TO MY HOME. ALBERT WILL BE GLAD OF THE COMPANY."

"As I have nothing else to do, I shall accept your invitation. I look forward to making Albert's acquaintance."

"COME THIS WAY," said Death.

* * *

1 Nobby had fallen onto the Ankh River earlier that month.

2 He had papers to prove it.

3 With both hands.

4 More remarkably, he wouldn't need the doorway.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to Virtuella for beta-reading. All remaining errors are entirely mine etc. etc.


	2. Chapter 2

Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was manning _**(1)**_ the front desk at Pseudopolis Yard. It had been a relatively quiet shift: she had only had to deal with one case of assault to an officer of the watch, when the owner of an illegally parked cart had tried to stamp on Buggy Swires for clamping his wheels. The man had been seriously injured and Buggy Swires was claiming emotional damage. Apparently he had found it traumatic to inadvertently harm the man, although Cheery had some difficulty believing this.

She heard thumping boots moments before Vimes ran into the building. He must be really upset to make so much noise, she thought.

"Cheery! I need you at the palace now! You'd better get Captain Carrot, too," he added.

"Yes, sir!" She jumped up and paused. "That'll mean leaving Detritus on the desk, sir."

"I don't care what you leave on the desk, Corporal. I need my best officers on this case. There's been a murder."

"Who discovered the remains, sir?" Carrot asked earnestly as he entered the room. "I heard you tell Cheery to call me," he clarified.

"I did," Vimes replied shortly. "Vetinari is dead in his office."

"Any suspects, sir?" Cheery asked. Only a watchman could respond like that, she thought.

"Bingeldy-bingeldy-beep. Kill leader of city."

Vimes pulled the Disorganiser out of his pocket. "I told you to cancel that."

"All you said was, 'Vetinari's already dead'."

"Well, cancel it now." He put the device away and turned back to Cheery. "Me."

"You what?" asked Cheery, bewildered.

"I'm the suspect."

"Ah," said Cheery. "Now there's a novelty. Are you going to arrest yourself?"

* * *

Elisabeth Jenkins was walking over the Brass Bridge when she overheard the two guards' conversation.

A small, ugly creature had just rushed up to the bridge and said, "Fredyou'llneverbelieveitMisterVimeshasgoneandfoundthepatricianmurdered."

"Er, I didn't quite catch that, Nobby. Slow it down a bit, will you."

"You'll never believe it, Fred, Mister Vimes has gone and found the patrician murdered."

"Try another one, Nobby," Fred said easily. "You don't think I'll believe his lordship's been killed, do you?"

"I'm dead serious, Fred. I saw the remains with mine own eyes. Mister Vimes said only an idiot would've done it and then I thought I'd better come warn you."

"Warn me about what, Nobby?"

"I never told him what you said about Foul Ole Ron. They even let me into the palace to see him, but he was otherwise occupied, as they say."

"You mean there's something living in Mister Vimes?" the guard called Fred asked in horror.

Elisabeth moved on. It was an interesting development and Father would want to hear about it.

* * *

Havelock Vetinari stepped out of the dark, black room into the dark, black room _**(2)**_. The second room was warmer and lower. It smelled of what Vetinari supposed one might term a 'fry-up'. A sizzling sound issued from the pan somebody – presumably Albert – was holding over the stove.

Vetinari sat down and waited.

"Ketchup?" Albert asked.

"What do you recommend, Archchancellor Malich?"

Albert spun around. "I didn't hear anybody else come in."

"As I remember, we were discussing the advisability of adding ketchup to your fry-up, Archchancellor."

"I never were an Archchancellor, I tell you."

"Tch, tch. You really should keep up with the times, my man. Unseen University awarded you the title centuries ago. But don't stray from the topic. Do you recommend the ketchup?"

"Certainly," said Albert. "You can never add too much flavour to a good fry-up, I always say."

"Interestingly enough, I believe Ridcully would tell me the same thing _**(3)**_. I'll have the ketchup then, thank you."

* * *

1 Technically, this is incorrect on two counts, as Cheery (or Cheri, as she preferred to pronounce her name) was, unusually, a female dwarf.

2 If he had chosen the other door, he would have entered the dark, black room.

3 This is clearly a case of titular heredity, which is almost certainly related to morphic resonance.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to Virtuella again, as well as to my lovely reviewers from the last chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's Drumknott, isn't it?" Carrot said. "Mister Vimes has just brought us to see his lordship. We don't want to waste any of his precious time, so it would be much appreciated if you'd just let us in."

Drumknott ummed and ahhed for a few moments before letting them pass.

"Technically, Carrot, we would not be wasting Lord Vetinari's time," Vimes pointed out.

"No, sir, I never said we would. I said we didn't want to waste _your_ time."

"Oh." Vimes had never entirely understood Carrot's peculiar honesty. "In that case, we'll begin the investigation immediately."

"Er," Cheery said, "you always say we should interview any eyewitnesses first, sir, so would you tell us what you saw, please?"

"I came in to make my regular report to Lord Vetinari," Vimes said. "Everything seemed perfectly normal. Then, as I was speaking to him he suddenly collapsed. I moved around the desk to take a closer look at him and found him in his present condition."

"Er, is that all, sir? There wasn't a – a weapon thrown through the window or anything?"

"No."

"Are you sure you didn't do anything else, sir? You might have accidentally touched something that triggered something else or – or something."

"I didn't do anything, Corporal. You can do your scene of crime analysis now."

"Yes, sir." Cheery knelt down to inspect the body.

Vetinari's clothing was perfectly in place. His face expressed slight irritation, but certainly not fear or anger. One might have said that Vetinari's death had been due to INC **_(1)_**, were it not for the blood oozing from the gash in his neck.

"The wound was inflicted at close quarters," Cheery said. "It certainly wasn't a missile. What's rather strange is that it appears the victim was not aware of the attacker. I'll do blood tests to make sure," she added.

As Cheery was scraping her various samples into a collection of jars and vials, there was a soft knocking. Drumknott walked into the office and froze.

* * *

Frank Easy had woken up with a hangover. This, he felt, was distinctly unfair, since he hadn't drunk anything the night before.

"Get a move on, Easy," The foreman shouted. "We ain't got all day."

"'m comin'," he mumbled. He strode forward, trying to ignore his blinding headache. He mustn't act like a wimp. Girls didn't like wimpy men. He wouldn't be a wimp. He flexed his biceps as he walked up to the lumber pile and began loading the cart.

Frank knew his biceps were probably bigger than his brain **_(3)_**. He was proud of it. Girls wanted men with big muscles and lots of money. He flexed his biceps again. He definitely had big muscles and after his meeting with Mr Jenkins tonight he would have lots of money too. Soon the girls would be lining up to meet him.

"You ain't bin drinking, 'ave you, Easy?" the foreman asked suspiciously.

"I ain't 'ad a drop," Frank said and loaded the last piece of decking onto the cart.

* * *

"Your Grace, I think you have some explaining to do," Drumknott said.

"The Watch are investigating the scene of a crime," Vimes said. "We will attempt to inform the next-of-kin as soon as possible."

"Should the matter not have been, mmm, reported, Your Grace?"

"We are the Watch! There's nobody for us to report to."

"Nonetheless, Your Grace, I feel it would be appropriate to inform the guild leaders of the occurrence."

"Do as you wish. The Watch will get on with the case. We don't have time to pussyfoot around mollycoddled guild leaders. This is a murder investigation."

"Very good, Your Grace. I will make the relevant communications immediately."

Vimes stared after the clerk. He hated politics. They wouldn't leave his investigation alone now. It would be wretchedly difficult to find a murderer in the turmoil the guild leaders would raise **_(4)_**.

"Er, sir?"

"Yes, Corporal?"

"If you're finished watching the doorframe, I'd like to get back to the Yard to analyse my samples."

"Right, Corporal. We're leaving now."

* * *

1 Internal Natural Causes **_(2)_**

2 Since assassination is a natural cause of death for high-ranking politicians, a more precise term for death due to the independent functioning of the deceased's body is necessary.

3 His mother had told him so.

4 Finding the right murderer would be all but impossible.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to Virtuella for beta-reading.


	4. Chapter 4

"You liked it?" Albert asked suspiciously.

"Certainly. The combination of tastes and textures was superb, although I did feel that there was a little much grease. The ketchup made it quite extraordinary."

"Ah well, don't argue with a good dollop of ketchup, I say."

"Indeed, that would not be very productive," Vetinari agreed politely.

Albert inspected Vetinari for a moment. "I'm to tell you not to go looking up what's happening to your city in the library either."

"Ah. Which library would this be?"

"Third door on the right. I expect you'll be wanting to look around the place now, so I'll just get on with the dishes."

Vetinari stepped out of the kitchen and towards the third door on the right.

* * *

Cheery let a drop of blood fall into the vial on her workbench. The solution turned blue.

"Well, what does that mean, Corporal?" Vimes asked.

"It's blood _**(1)**_, sir."

"I guessed that already."

"I have to do all the routine tests, sir. _**(2)**_ This one's for alcohol." Another drop of blood fell into a vial. The solution immediately turned bright red. Cheery looked at it worriedly.

"Sober as a judge, no doubt."

"No sir," Cheery said nervously, "He must have been highly inebriated to get a result like that."

"That's not right, Corporal. I was speaking to him at the time of death and he was certainly not drunk."

"I'll do the tests again, sir. The sample might have been contaminated, but . . ."

"But what, Corporal?"

Cheery looked uneasy. "If it was contaminated, it was immediately after the murder, sir."

"Corporal Littlebottom! Are you accusing me of tampering with the evidence?"

"Er, no, sir."

"Well, why not?"

"You're not drunk, sir, so it can't be your blood."

"Oh. Couldn't I have poured a bottle of whisky over him?"

"No, sir. The alcohol mixes differently with the blood, sir" She lifted a different tube from her desk. "This is the other sample. It's almost impossible for this one to have been contaminated." She dribbled the blood into a vial. The drop fell to the bottom of the vial and began to spread along the base. "He was sober, sir. I would venture that the contaminant is the murderer's blood."

"Hells, Corporal, I would have noticed a drunk murderer."

"With all due respect, sir, I would have expected you to notice any murderer. This one must have an unusual tactic. I'm doing the adrenaline tests now."

"Which tests?"

"Adrenaline, sir. It comes from the Latatian and means 'thing that makes you run faster'." She dripped the blood into a vial. The clear liquid turned milky. Cheery waited for a few seconds, then tapped the vial cautiously. The milky liquid remained unchanged. "There's no adrenaline, sir. I think we can assume he didn't see anything to alarm him."

* * *

Vetinari stepped into the library _**(3)**_. A quiet, but persistent scratching permeated the room. He browsed for a few minutes before opening the book he wanted.

_Vimes watched as Corporal Littlebottom continued the tests. These results were more routine than the earlier ones, but they weren't making anything clearer._

He read for a few more minutes to satisfy himself that Vimes was handling matters adequately, before moving on to the next biography.

_Drumknott filed a copy of the letter he had sent to the guild heads. He didn't trust Commander Vimes to handle the diplomacy of the situation, despite what His Lordship believed._

That was to be expected, Vetinari thought. He returned the volume to the shelf and moved on.

_Rosie Palm reread the letter she had received from the patrician's offices. She sighed. Vetinari had understood Ankh-Morpork. He would be impossible to replace._

Mrs Palm would be useful while he was gone. Vetinari read a few more lines and replaced the volume. He continued browsing. It was almost as convenient as being back in his office.

* * *

Frank took another swig from the bottle. Mr Jenkins said it was high quality wine, but Frank reckoned it was a waste of money. Still, if Mr Jenkins was paying him to drink, he wouldn't complain. Even all the business about climbing down the chimney in the dark was worth it. He was getting pretty rich by now and if Mr Jenkins didn't want his daughter to know about it, what business was it of his?

Frank hiccupped and began to sing. He was drinking fine wine and had a pocket full of dollars. Mr Jenkins even said he wouldn't get a hangover. He said Frank had already had the hangover. Frank didn't bother to wonder what that meant before he went swaggering down the street, looking for girls.

* * *

1 It may also have been soap, due to the little known fact that the easily identifiable alchemical properties of blood are also present in some cleaning agents.

2 Although it is necessary to test that a substance is blood and not, for example, paint, it is not considered necessary to ascertain that it is not soap.

3 It was a dark, black room.

* * *

**A/N:** As always, thanks to Virtuella for beta reading and to everyone who has reviewed.


	5. Chapter 5

"But Your Grace," Lord Downey said, leaning on Vetinari's varnished desk, "you must admit that it is entirely inappropriate for you to conduct this investigation."

"In fact, as the leaders of the various guilds of Ankh-Morpork, we have come to the decision that a more impartial body should undertake the task." Selachii's eyes flickered frantically as he tried to avoid seeing either Vimes or the bloodstains on the floor.

"Only the Watch is capable of handling the investigation and you know it. The Watch is sufficiently impartial." Vimes clenched his fists. It was certainly more impartial than these power-grabbing politicians._**(1)**_

"I'm afraid we need some reassurance of that, Your Grace." Selachii's voice was calm, but his flickering eyes and twitching fingers gave him away. It was only a matter of time, Vimes thought, before the man began to pull out his hair.

"Bingeldy-bingeldy-beep. You have an appointment, Insert-Name-Here."

"What now?"

"Kill leader of city."

"I told you –"

The imp sneezed loudly. "Kill leader of city."

It sneezed again. "Kill leader of city."

"You must understand, Your Grace, that in the circumstances, doubt has been thrown on the credibility of the watch," Downey said smugly.

* * *

Somebody walked into Neil Jenkins's workshop. It sounded like the man was in a hurry. An imp sneezed.

"Kill leader of city."

"Good morning, Commander Vimes." The man paused. Most probably, Neil thought, he was surprised that a blind man could be so perceptive. The imp sneezed again.

"Kill leader of city."

"My wife had this inspected less than a week ago, Mr Jenkins." The imp sneezed and began to speak again, but Vimes ignored it. "You can hear what's wrong for yourself. I need you to tell me what has happened to it and why." Neil wrinkled his nose. The man smelled like he had just run across the city, which, on consideration, he probably had.

"Of course, Commander. There's a viral infection going around at the moment, which is probably causing the sneezing." That infection had fit perfectly into his plans for Vimes' Disorganiser. No imp physician could have found anything unusual in the imp's symptoms.

"I don't want the technical details, Mr Jenkins. Just fix the darn thing and explain the problem in layman's terms."

"It will be ready tomorrow morning. I'll have your bill for you."

Vimes coughed. "Mr Jenkins, you looked at it less than a week ago. I refuse to pay you twice."

Neil wondered how hard he needed to press the point to avoid drawing attention to it. Vimes wouldn't trust him if he didn't press for payment, but he wanted to avoid making a big deal of it. "But, Commander, there will be expenses," he objected limply.

"Do I look like I care, Jenkins?" Neil decided to interpret the question figuratively.

"Very well, Commander." He sighed. Hopefully he'd seemed realistic. Drawing attention to himself at this point would be fatal.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow." The proverbially thin cardboard of Vimes' boot made a distinctive scraping sound on the wooden floor as he turned to leave.

A few minutes later, Neil heard a loud crash. "Elisabeth, what was that?" It sounded like everything had been swept off the workbench, but he hadn't even been touching it. Elisabeth hurried into the room. Neil was pleased that she was so attentive.

"You've knocked everything off your workbench, Father."

"I haven't touched my workbench." He sounded fractious, even to himself, but he pushed it aside. Elisabeth was his daughter. It was her duty to look after him.

"If you say so, Father." Her skirt swished softly as she knelt down to pick up his scattered equipment. "I think this imp has been knocked out."

"Yes, yes, just put it back on the bench." He should have been aware of the silence after the crash, but he excused himself on the grounds that he had been somewhat unnerved.

"I will, Father." Elisabeth paused. "Father, some of the wine you ordered has gone missing. You said you weren't going to get anyone else involved in this." The girl was too perceptive for her own good.

"I didn't get anyone else involved, dear. I just, er, gave some to a disgruntled customer to unruffle his feathers." She knew better than to get involved in his business dealings.

"Oh, I see." Her skirt rustled as she stood up. "Well, I'll leave you now everything's back in place."

* * *

Elisabeth grasped the coffee cup firmly and inspected the candles before answering. "I refuse to get drunk, Father. I'm doing it this way."

The stout old man shifted in his overstuffed armchair. "Elisabeth, you know a poor blind man can't stop you, but I entreat you to think of your health."

"I'll be fine, Father. Besides, now you've spent however much money on that turnwise wine it would be terribly wasteful not to use it." Contrary to her objections, she put her cup down on the wooden table, beside the wine bottle. Father wouldn't see it.

"Well, Elisabeth, just drink the wine then," he wheedled. "There's no need for all this business with Klatchian coffee. You'll more than likely damage your mind that way. Don't be so selfish as to leave your poor blind father alone."

He leaned back into his armchair. Elisabeth watched him relax and clenched her jaw. He played that card every time and it always worked on her. The bare wooden walls bore testimony to the fact that if the poor blind man couldn't appreciate furnishings, he wouldn't pay for them. The few candles scattered around the room were the cheapest available. Only the thick pile carpet, undyed as it was, displayed Neil Jenkins' wealth.

Elisabeth took a deep breath. She would stand up to him this time. Mother had never approved of drunkenness. "No, Father. I'm doing it this way. I will not get drunk and I will not allow you to get some poor, innocent fool involved in this."

He smiled before answering – he had never been able to control his facial expressions – and it reassured her that he wasn't really concerned. "Do it your way, then, Elisabeth, but if harm comes of it don't look to me for sympathy."

She downed the coffee. Before it could take effect she lifted the bottle of wine and drained it. "I've done it, Father. I'll drink my way to yesterday, if that's what makes you happy." She laughed harshly. "Not that I ever do anything for other reasons."

"You're drunk, Elisabeth."

No, I'm not, she thought. I'm giddy with the knowledge that you can't hold me responsible for what I do now. "That's what you wanted, Father." She stepped up to his workbench and swept her arm along its surface.

There was not a loud crash as the tools arranged neatly on the bench did not fall to the floor. Elisabeth wondered if perhaps she was drunk after all. Had she missed the table altogether? Then she remembered that Father's workbench had already been disrupted that day. She smiled. Turnwise wine wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

1 Anybody is more impartial than a power-grabbing politician.

* * *

**A/N:** Again, thanks go to Virtuella for beta reading.

This chapter has taken me a very long time to post, but now the holiday season is over I should be posting more frequently. Thanks to all of you who have encouraged me to keep at this by reviewing or alerting my story!


	6. Chapter 6

"Look here, Fred," Nobby said, "you can't blame it all on me." He absentmindedly decorated the doorstep of Pseudopolis Yard with the contents of one of his spots.

"Well, who else can I blame it on, Nobby? Mister Vimes ought to have been told." Fred Colon attempted to look like a man forced to perform an unpleasant duty, but succeeded only in looking like a man trying to weasel his way out of trouble.

"How was I supposed to get past the palace guard, Fred? You know it's not possible."

"You don't expect me pick a fight with the palace guard, do you, Nobby? Look, somebody's got to do it, right? It's like special duty, see. I don't mean nothin' pers'nal by it."

"Sergeant! I'll see you in my office immediately!" By the time Colon's feet had found their way to 'attention', Vimes had already marched up the stairs.

"Yes, sir!" Colon saluted and grimly followed his superior officer.

Nobby sighed and wandered into the watch-house, where he entertained himself by reassigning the ownership of the petty cash.

The clicking of heels announced the entrance of Mrs Rosie Palm. Nobby stared.

"I need to speak to Commander Vimes in my capacity as a guild leader."

Nobby gulped. "I'm afraid he's temporarily unavailable, ma'am." He watched the glint in her eye. "But I'll see what I can do for you."

* * *

Neil waited until Elisabeth had left the house to work on Vimes' imp. He didn't need the girl knowing too much about what he was doing. She was an interfering nuisance as it was.

After she'd left he spent a moment analysing the house. It was void of human activity. The dominant sound was the familiar scrabbling of the rats. He could smell the scrambled eggs Elisabeth had made for breakfast and the everyday scents of his workroom: the pages of notes Elisabeth had made up for him, since his hand was barely legible; the slightly acrid odour of imp; a slightly stronger smell of ink than usual, after yesterday's incident.

Satisfied, Neil took the Disorganiser from its place on his desk. With carefully probing fingers he found the imp and woke it up.

"Imp! This is your master speaking to you." He added a few words that only the imp would understand.

"Yes, sir. I shall do as you command, sir."

"Imp, what is stored in your memory?"

"Sir, I have data concerning the nature of imps and my role as an imp. I have data regarding various languages. I have data-"

"Stop. Do you have any memories regarding your specific role as a Disorganiser?"

"Yes, sir." The imp's voice was slightly too high, Neil thought. The sudden stop on the recall function must have strained it. Clearly it was of an inferior breed.

Choosing his words carefully, he continued, "What user-specified data do you have, Imp?"

"None, sir."

"Do you have any user-specified data in your memory, Imp?" He had to try again; there must have been an error in his syntax.

"No, sir." Neil was momentarily flummoxed. Vimes certainly couldn't have convinced the imp to answer like that. Only an expert could persuade an imp to lie under the influence of what he'd told this one. There was nobody in Ankh-Morpork who could outfox Neil Jennings. He would wager that nobody on the disc was better than he.

The memory must have been overwritten somehow. If not overwritten, at least erased. It might, Neil thought, be some form of amnesia. It wasn't an uncommon malfunction_**(1)**_. A moment later Neil realised how simple he'd been. The imp had been knocked out the previous day. Clearly the incident had wiped its memory. It was an excellent example of percussive maintenance. He would have to remember to get Elisabeth to make a note of it for him.

* * *

Havelock Vetinari stood in Death's kitchen, watching Albert make dinner. The black pot was filled with a thick stew of some sort. Albert hadn't specified the precise contents and it seemed better not to ask.

Vetinari watched a bubble form between two pieces of unspecified content. It grew steadily, reached its maximum possible size and popped. Another bubble began to form, but was destroyed when Albert's wooden spoon ran through it.

"Those bubbles are somewhat analogous to the interface between history-as-it-is and history-as-it-should-be," Vetinari mused for Albert's benefit.

"You still exist if the bubbles pop wrong, though," Albert said bluntly and added a lump of salt to the stew. "if history takes the wrong course that time-dome will mean the end of you."

"That is the beauty of analogy," Vetinari agreed. "The bubbles in your stew pot are quite innocuous, but still demonstrate the principles of the interface around my city."

Albert eyed Vetinari sharply. "I control my stew." He lifted the pot onto the old wooden table. The bubbling slowed as each bubble fell in on itself. "Can you take the heat off your city?"

"I have citizens who will absorb the heat. The life of the city is bound to my own life, now. They will not forsake the city."

Albert nodded. "Perhaps you will survive it, then, Havelock."

"It will be something of a disappointment if I don't," Vetinari replied.

* * *

**1** Experts in the field have speculated that this is due to the frequency of defenestration of Disorganisers.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to Virtuella for beta-reading and WendWriter advice and all-roubd encouragement.

For those who may not know, 'percussive maintenance' is not an unheard of term in this world's IT industry.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

"Honest, sir, I meant to tell you," Fred Colon said. "We always meant to tell you, only we were waiting -" he paused. Vimes could almost see the mental gears frantically turning and grinding. "Waiting for an opportune moment," Fred concluded.

"Waiting to tell me what, Fred?" Vimes asked.

"What Foul Ole Ron said, sir. Someone's bribing young Frank Easy with drink. Thing is, sir, the kid's too simple to be worth bribing. He does whatever he's told anyhow. And Ron says the Duck Man reckons they're giving him some of the most expensive wine on the Disc."

A few moments after Fred fell silent, Vimes heard someone step on the creaky step. With an ease born of practise and experience, Vimes slid back his chair, seated himself at his desk and grabbed a document from the nearest pile. "Thank you for your report, Sergeant. However-"

When Nobby tentatively knocked and pulled the door open, only an unusually keen observer could have deduced Vimes' agitation. _**(1)**_ "Mrs Palm says she needs to see you urgently, sir, so I brought her up here." He opened the door fully to admit her.

"Vimes! What are you doing about the Vetinari case?"

Vimes looked up. "Mrs Palm, have your colleagues at the Council of Guild Heads not informed you that the Watch are no longer involved in that case?"

"Commander, I thought you had more backbone than to meekly bow down to Downey and concern yourself with ducks." Mrs Palm's pronunciation of the last word fully expressed her disgust.

An expression of puzzlement settled on Fred Colon's face.

Vimes glanced down and read the title on the page in front of him.

Nobby snapped to attention. "Permission to leave, sir?"

"Yes, go," Vimes said. "You too, Fred."

"Now, Commander," said Mrs Palm, "why don't you tell me what's really going on."

* * *

Elisabeth stepped into the house and paused. Something was wrong. Her father's workroom was almost silent.

She put down her bag, lifted her skirts and walked over to the workroom as quietly as she could. When Father was in one of his moods, he didn't tolerate unnecessary noise. She found him hunched over at his desk, holding his head in hands.

"Father? Are you alright?"

He groaned. "Keep your voice down, girl." Elisabeth breathed out slowly – silently – and waited. "I haven't had a headache this bad in years. Not since I – not since your mother died." Elisabeth scowled. It was difficult to cry while scowling. Besides, she was still angry at her father for deserting her to drink himself into oblivion that day.

"Father," she began sharply. He winced and she modulated her voice. "You're not planning to drink that wine yourself, are you?"

"Of course not!" His surprised expression reassured her and she did not see that it became a thoughtful one after she left the room.

* * *

Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was doing paperwork at the front desk when the girl arrived. "Can I help you, Miss?"

The girl scowled, deepening the frown lines on her face. "I need to see Commander Vimes."

"The commander is a busy man, Miss. Are you sure I can't help you?"

"Tell him it's a delivery from Neil Jenkins, Corporal. I think he'll have time."

Cheery went up to Vimes' office. "Sir, there's a girl downstairs who says she has a delivery from Neil Jenkins. Do you want to see her?"

Vimes sighed. "I suppose you'd better send her up," he said.

"You're quite popular with the ladies today, I see," she said as she left.

"Cheery!"

"I'm only making an observation, sir."

"Go fetch the girl, Corporal."

The girl introduced herself as Elisabeth Jenkins and gave Vimes his Disorganiser and a complimentary bottle of wine.

"The imp had been infected with a virus," she explained. "Viruses are tiny creatures that make people sick. Recently they have developed the ability to affect imps too. This imp had become delirious, but it's been entirely reset now."

"Thank you," Vimes said. "I believe that's all."

"Indeed," Elisabeth said as she left.

Cheery looked at the bottle of wine on Vimes' desk. "Would you like me to take that for you, sir?" she asked.

"No thank you, Cheery," Vimes said, opening the Disorganiser "I'd prefer to keep that where I can see it."

Cheery hadn't quite left the room when she heard the now familiar voice.

"Kill leader of city."

* * *

**1 **Such an observer would have noticed that the document Commander Vimes was so diligently perusing was entitled _Complaint to the Traffic Department Regarding the Manner in Which Live Poultry are Conveyed Through the City of Ankh-Morpork_.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks again to Virtuella for beta reading.


	8. Chapter 8

Elisabeth had given Neil the idea he needed to complete his plan. The work with the Easy man had fallen through: even Neil had been unable to penetrate his thick skull. He didn't trust the girl to do it. He was not so dimwitted that he believed she was entirely convinced. Besides, if she slipped up he would be left alone. That would be intolerable. He would have to do it himself.

The girl wouldn't like it, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. He only needed her to arrange some of the basics.

"Elisabeth," he called.

"Yes, Father?" Each footstep followed closely after the previous one. Neil was pleased with the attention.

"Elisabeth, I need to visit the palace to arrange some business matters. How soon will you have transport for me?"

"Father, it's not wise to visit the palace so soon after that-" Elisabeth paused. "That accident."

"Don't pussyfoot around it, girl. The Patrician was murdered."

"That's even more reason to stay away, Father. The world may be a better place without the Patrician, but involving yourself personally is foolish."

"My dear Elisabeth, do you really believe that it would not be suspicious if I refused to work at the palace? I will not have much to do with the murder, but I must do this job." For good measure he added, "It's not that I have a particular desire to know any more about the affair, but I have very little choice." If she were to divine that he was lying, let her catch him there, rather than where it mattered.

There was a pause before Elisabeth answered, "Very well, Father. I'll have a carriage ready for you within the hour. Do you want me to help pack your case?"

"No, I'll do that," Neil said grumpily. She mustn't know what he was planning to take with him. Besides, he was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

* * *

"You can't leave the room unguarded," Vimes said. "Anyone might get in there."

"I do not see your problem, Commander," Downey said. "Our investigation committee has ascertained that an unfortunate accident occurred. The scene is being cleared and redecoration is already commencing. We can't afford to waste time on such an unnecessary formality." Before Vimes could respond, he added, "The guild heads have dismissed accusations against one individual on the grounds that only circumstantial evidence was available. However, if that individual were to continue to act in a suspicious manner, we would be forced to resume our investigations."

Vimes stiffened. "I see. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." He turned and walked away briskly. On the way back to Pseudopolis Yard, Vimes shuffled puzzle pieces around in his mind.

The bottle of turnwise wine was locked in his desk drawer. There had been traces of alcohol in the blood samples, or in some of them. Somebody had been bribing young Frank Easy. The imp in the Disorganiser was still going on about its recurring event. Jenkins must think he was a fool to send that bottle of wine.

When Vimes reached the Watch House, he had made his decisions.

* * *

"I have been commissioned to work on a delicate imp installation in the main palace office," Neil said to the man at the palace gate. "I will need someone to escort me to the site." He was pleased that his voice remained steady despite his nerves. It wasn't that he was afraid: logic dictated that he must succeed. Vetinari had been murdered. The murderer had not been at the scene. Therefore he must have operated from a distance. The flow of the logic was soothing. This murderer had not been working from a distance in space, but a distance in time. The turnwise wine would send the consequences of his actions into the past. He could not fail: Vetinari had been murdered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm placing you under arrest." The fear the logic had suppressed flowed through his body. He must try not to show it.

"You can't arrest me. I haven't done anything illegal." His voice was still steady. They wouldn't be able to stop him. Vetinari had already died. Somebody had to kill him.

"You are arrested on a charge of bribery, Mr Jenkins. You have the right to remain silent." It wasn't possible, Neil reminded himself. Although the young man clearly thought it was.

"But I haven't killed Vetinari yet," Jenkins said. "You can't arrest me." He winced at the shake in his voice. His voice didn't matter, though. They could not arrest him until he had killed Vetinari, because Vetinari must have a murderer.

"I'm not arresting you for murder, Mr Jenkins." _**(1) **_The boy must have imagined that he was stupid. Neil would not be patronised. He was the man who would be remembered for purging the city of a tyrant.

"Don't you see? It's too late to change it now." If the boy understood he wouldn't try to fight the inevitable. "I have to kill him. The path of history has already been set." Dramatically, Neil pulled the wine from his bag and drank deeply. "I'm unstoppable now. The Patrician must be killed."

"Sir?" The man at the gate must have returned. "I think you're drunk. Maybe you should go home."

"How dare you patronise me? It is ordained that I will kill the Patrician. The wine has temporally displaced the effects of my actions and now the action must be fulfilled. It cannot be avoided. Vetinari must die." He briefly thought that he might indeed seem drunk, but his fury fuelled his purpose. He stepped forward warily, fairly certain that he was moving toward the gate. A moment later he felt warm hands closing around his wrists.

"You have been placed under arrest by an officer of the Watch, Mr Jenkins. Resisting arrest is a criminal offence." Neil's hands were nearly as cold as the handcuffs he felt. Perhaps it was not the lack of heat that made him flinch.

"What is causing this hold up?" It was Selachii's voice. It reminded Neil that the young man was mistaken in thinking the arrest could be successful. Vetinari's murder must go on.

"Lord Selachii," he said, "it appears that I am wanted at the Watch House, but I urgently need to see to the installation in your – the palace – offices first." He was pleased that the intentional slip had sounded so natural, but reminded himself that his success was inevitable. It should not surprise him that things worked his way.

"Well, I don't see the problem," Selachii said. "Captain, release him. He'll come with you once he's finished, I'm sure."

Three consecutive thuds marked what Neil assumed to be Selachii's guards leaving his carriage. As he felt the captain's hands on the handcuffs, Neil began to relax.

* * *

**1 **Jenkins knew this, and Carrot knew that Jenkins knew this, and Jenkins knew that Carrot knew that he knew this. Possibly Carrot also knew that Jenkins knew that he knew that Jenkins knew this. _**(2) **_

**2 **This fact was later used to support the theory that understanding your enemy is not nearly so useful as being stronger, richer or better connected than he.

* * *

**A/N:** Beta read by Virtuella.


End file.
